100 Zeni
by R.C. McLachlan
Summary: "Your father is going to be so upset."


**Note** **:** Written for the tumblr prompt "Truten." I've been in this fandom for 16 years and it took me way longer than I care to admit to figure out what "truten" was. I don't particularly ship Trunks/Goten (I don't particularly ship _any_ of the kids, tbh), but a prompt's a prompt!

* * *

He finds her at the kitchen table, hunched over something that looks like a carburetor, biting her lip as she solders the internal bowl vent. She's wearing a blazer and pearls, and her hair has been styled, lips perfectly filled in with a deep, confident red. She had an important meeting, then. To already be back at the grind is a good sign—whatever it was went well. She's in a good mood.

Perfect.

She cuts a small figure, but somehow she's always been a terrifying power, ever since he was a boy and he realized she could cow the galaxy's strongest into submission with her words alone. He's always tried to do right by her. The weight of her disappointment is enough to send him into a downward spiral of guilt and sorrow; she doesn't even need to yell. He craves her regard in all manner of things, and now is no different. Now is perhaps the time he's coveted it the most; for this, she's the second greatest foe he will ever face.

Sucking in a breath, he pushes out from the doorway and comes to stand at her right. "For the simulator?"

"Mm," she hums in the negative, lowering the soldering gun and flashing him a sly smile. "The lawn mower, actually. The grass has been looking a bit tall these days."

Some of the tension in his shoulders leaves him at the familiar start of this old fight. "Mom, we're the richest family in the world. We can hire someone to cut the grass. We _should_ hire someone to cut the grass. Why do I always have to do it?"

"You've got to learn how to manage responsibilities you don't actually want somehow," she says. "This seems as good a way as any. And hey, bonus: the lawn gets cut."

He crosses his arms and absolutely doesn't pout. "I helped saved the world on more than one occasion. I think that fills the responsibilities quota."

She snorts. "Not in this family." With a huff, she abandons the carburetor and sits back in her chair, peering up at him. "What's up, kiddo? You never come by to shoot the shit with me anymore. I thought you were with Goten."

And just like that, his lungs constrict, forcing his breath from him in a low whoosh. He tries to swallow past the blockage in his throat. He wheezes a little. "I… I wanted to… Can I talk to you about something?"

"Of course, sweetheart. What's up?"

Blue eyes—the same eyes he sees in the mirror every morning—regard him for a long moment, and she nods wordlessly, gesturing to the chair across from her. He moves to take it and grips the back of it to hide the fact that his hands are trembling. He sits down hard, gracelessly, tucking his fingers beneath his thighs. He withdraws one hand to wipe at his mouth, then drops it to the tabletop, then tucks it back with the other. He crosses his legs at the knee, jiggles his foot, then switches legs.

His hand lifts again to scratch at the back of his neck and his nails drag through a thin sheen of sweat. It's sweltering. "Jeez, it's hot. Is the air on?"

She stares at him. "Trunks, what's the matter?"

This is it. This is the opening he needs. He's spent years practicing the words waiting on his tongue, has tweaked them to perfection, organized them into an ironclad structure that would make his high school lit teachers weep. Practiced them until they were just right, encouraged by light laughter and the slow slide of familiar, calloused hands up his sides.

 _You know you're freaking out over nothing, right?_

"Trunks?"

His knee slams into the table at the feel of a hand covering his, and both the table and the carburetor go crashing into the dishwasher door.

With a despairing look, his mother reaches for him again, her small fingers curling into his. "Baby, please. Just tell me. Whatever it is, it's going to be okay."

Dragging in a shuddering breath, he drags a thumb over her knuckles and whispers, "I've got something… There's something I need to tell you, mom."

Her eyes go wide and there's a suspicious tremble at the corner of her mouth, but she gives him her full attention. "Go on."

He opens his mouth, ready to start, but nothing comes out.

"Trunks?"

Oh god. Oh god, he can't remember. He's spent years finding the words for this very moment and lost them in seconds.

He reaches up to touch his throat, wiping the sweat gathering under his chin, and pulls in a shallow gulp of air. It's so hot in here. He can't breathe. The hum of the central air system falls from his ears until all that's left is the oceanic roar of his blood, cresting until it's all he knows, invading every single part of him, washing away his strength; dumb, deaf, and if he could reach for that place inside of him, the gilded clutch of power that's held fast since he was a boy and learning how to navigate his heritage, and pull it over him like golden armor, he—

His cheek stings, and he blinks.

She lowers her hand and gives him a guilty smile. "Sorry. You were hyperventilating."

"Mom," he tries again, and then, shuddering, whispers, "mama."

"Oh baby, you know that there's nothing in this world—in this universe—that could make me love you less, right?"

He closes his eyes and doesn't fight it when she stands and presses at the back of his head, guiding him to rest against her belly. The slow, rhythmic sweep of her fingers through his hair combs the tangle of anxiety and fear into something smoother, manageable, and he gusts out a sigh.

"Ready to talk?"

Her shirt bunches as he nods, and it all comes tumbling out. "I'm in love, mama. I've… I've been with someone for a long time. I-I've wanted to tell you, but it never seemed like the right time. A-And I'm turning 21 next week; now's as good a time as any."

To her credit, her hand never stops. "Oh?"

"Yeah." It's not the well-constructed essay it ought to be, but then his mother was never one for long-winded arguments when cutting to the chase could yield a result quicker.

"Can I ask who?"

He exhales. "Goten."

At that, her gentle stroking slows to a stop, and she cups his chin in her hands, tilting it back to gaze into his eyes. The expression she wears is solemn, shadowed, and her mouth trembles a little. It cleaves his heart in two to see this powerful woman brought low by his admission, and already he can feel himself slipping under the weight of her disappointment.

"Mama—"

"Your father's going to be so upset," she sighs, stroking a thumb under his eye.

And naturally, that's when the man in question walks in through the back door, a damp towel slung over his bare shoulders. His gaze lights on them and immediately sharpens, suspicion lurking there like a snake waiting to strike.

He looks up at his mother, expecting a knife's slash of a frown on her face, but she's—

Grinning.

"Pay up, fucker!" She crows, dropping Trunks's head altogether to point at his father, wearing a terrifying triumph like armor and cackling dementedly.

What.

His father bristles like a wet cat. "He did _not_ —"

She gives an arrogant shrug and pats Trunks on the head. "I told you that he wouldn't wait until his 21st birthday. Not my fault that I know our son better than you. Beating the shit out of each other does not a father-son relationship make."

Trunks alternates between staring wide-eyed at his father, who goes for the tea bag jar by the microwave and pulls out two 50 zeni bills, and his mother, who holds out her hand and snickers as the cash is slapped into her palm with a muttered curse.

"No one likes a sore loser, babe," she tells his father. "Even one who does it as well as you."

"You are the bane of my existence," his father snarls at her, then whirls around and stalks out of the kitchen, but not without shouting, "You couldn't wait another week, you damn brat?!"

Trunks stares at her, betrayed. "You bet on—Wait, you _knew_?"

"Of course we—wait, you thought you were being subtle all this time? Jeez. We're going to have to fix that before you take over the company. You'll drive it into the ground within your first month."

Something probably very important in his brain shorts out.

"You're not… mad?"

His mother pauses in the act of stuffing the folded bills into her bra. "Hm? Of course not, sweetie, why would we be mad?"

"Goten's…" Poor? A man? From the loins of dad's best friend/worst enemy? Where does he even start?

"Oh, baby, Goten's your match in every way. He always has been, right from the start." She smiles brightly. "I expect him here for Sunday dinner."

His heart rate slows and then swells, warming him. "He's always here for Sunday dinner."

She waves it off. "Yeah, but this will be his first as your official boyfriend. Tell him to be prepared, because I'm going to make it _so awkward_."

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and laughs. "You're the worst mother ever."

"I know," she says proudly. There's a light, wet pressure at his hairline and he drops his hands to watch as she pulls back. "I'm so happy for you, kiddo. Your father is, too."

Because his father's contractually obligated to ruin literally everything, there comes a shout from the living room: "I'd be happier if we were discussing this a week from now!"

His mother sighs, and then pauses. "Wait, does Chi-Chi know?"

Trunks shrugs. "I don't think so, no. We were going to tell her tonight. Goku's back for a visit."

There comes a sound like a chair being toppled over as someone vaults over it, followed by frantic footfalls, and then his father bursts into the kitchen with a manic look on his face. "Kakarot doesn't know?"

"No…?"

A terrifying smile breaks over his father's face. "Let me tell him."

"Veg _eta_." She gives him a cold, appalled stare, as if she can't believe he would be so cavalier with something so important to their son's life, then relents with a shrug. "Only if I can film it."

"You know I hate being on camera!"

"You're going to want to relive this, trust me."

"All right, fine. But I get to make and distribute copies as I see fit." With a sneer worthy of saiyan royalty, his father saunters back out again.

Trunks whirls around. "Mom!"

"Oh, don't _mom_ me. Marriage is all about compromise, sweetie. Someday when you and Goten get hitched, you'll understand." She flashes him another smile and then picks up the carburetor from the floor by the now broken kitchen table. After a quick diagnostic rub down, she hefts it into her arms, kicks open the back door, and leaves.

He stands alone, both elated and really damn confused, before fishing his phone out of his pocket.

Goten picks up on the first ring. _"Well?"_

At the sound of his voice, Trunks exhales the last gray wisps of his anxiety and smiles, holding the phone a little closer. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can detect the cadence of Goten's ki over the radio waves. It's perfectly synced with his.

His match, in every way, right from the start.

"I was worrying over nothing. You were right."

 _"I usually am,"_ Goten agrees cheerfully. _"You're really that surprised? Trunks, I spent most of my childhood wishing your parents would adopt me. They're unfairly cool."_

"I hope you're still singing that tune when my dad explains gay sex to yours."

There's a long pause, and then, _"Oh god, Sunday dinner is gonna be so awkward."_


End file.
